


Victory

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [22]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Matt in the hospital, asking him out afterwards – that had been another one of those spur of the moment decisions that he was known for. He hadn't actually considered what going out on a date with the damn kid would actually mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Unlucky". Written for prompt "V" at the 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

John's always been an act first, think later kind of guy. He'd taken the civil service exam on a whim when he got out of college, and that led to the best years of his life as a member of the world's finest police force. Asking Holly out had been part of a challenge when one of the schmucks at 28 Division had teased that she was out of his league. She was, but that sure as fuck wasn't going to stop him. Martindale had to get his rounds for a week after that, and he enjoyed every goddamn beer even more knowing he was seeing Holly on Saturday night.

Kissing Matt in the hospital, asking him out afterwards – that had been another one of those spur of the moment decisions that he was known for. He hadn't actually considered what going out on a date with the damn kid would actually mean. Should he dress up? Gianetti's wasn't exactly a fancy place, just some wooden tables and a long dark bar and the best pepperoni and mushroom pie on the planet. But the kid might be expecting that he make some effort.

John stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, alternating between his half dozen dress shirts and matching ties, before he finally said _fuck it_ and went with a charcoal grey Henley and dark blue jeans. He stood and studied himself before the mirror, puffed out his chest. The shirt fit nicely, the jeans were crisp and clean, and with his scalp freshly shorn he looked… like a fifty-something cop with too many wrinkles and too many scars. What was he thinking, asking some fresh-faced kid like Matt Farrell out on a date? He had to be going fucking mental in his old age.

But once the leap's been taken, a guy doesn't have any choice but to fall – even if there ain't no parachute.

* * *

They make small talk waiting for the pie to cook. John's never been good at small talk. So he's grateful when Tomas arrives with their order and he can fill his mouth with pepperoni and mushroom instead of words that sound stilted and awkward. He can't help but notice that Matt looks equally thankful.

John bites off another mouthful of pizza and tries to stifle the disappointment. It's not like he hasn't seen this before. Hell, it happened twice with Holly. And now that the adrenaline high has worn off, Matt's come to his senses just like she did. All he's gotta do now is get through the rest of this night with a shred of his dignity intact, and then they can part ways and Matt never has to see him again. 

"Okay," Matt says when they've gone five minutes without speaking. "I have to tell you something."

John sets his half-eaten slice carefully on the plate. "You don't have to say anything, kid."

"No," Matt says, "I do."

He'd hoped that the kid would at least allow them to finish their meals but apparently that isn't on the table. "Look," he says, making sure to keep his voice even, "I get it, all right? You changed your mind. We're going through all that fucked up shit on the road, emotions get all messed up. You think you feel something. Now things are back to normal and you realize I ain't no catch, I'm just a broken down cop with a bad shoulder. It's fine."

It isn't fine. It's a fuck-ton of shitty. And he detests the thought of going back to his silent house and sleeping in his empty bed and waking up alone for the rest of his goddamn life. But he's not going to make the kid feel guilty about how he feels.

He's so caught up in his own thoughts that it takes him a moment to realize Matt is shaking his head, his big brown eyes wide.

"What?" Matt says. "No, that's not… no."

"Huh?"

"Okay, so here's the thing," Matt says. He pushes his plate aside, places his palms flat on the table and leans in earnestly. "I don't really… date."

"Huh?" John says again. Fuck, he's particularly eloquent tonight.

Matt spreads his hands. "This whole thing, with the food and the drinks and the getting to know each other stuff? I've never actually… done that. At all. I don't know… I feel like I'm stuck in a really bad romcom and I can't get out of it!"

John's been on enough bad dates that he doesn't need to compare them to the schlock that airs on the Hallmark Channel or the latest putrid shit that blonde Barrymore's putting out. He and Matt might have got the meet-cute bit down pat, but the rest of it's going the same way as all of his quickly aborted dates over the past five years. He shouldn't have got his hopes up. 

"I already told ya, kid, it's fine," he answers. It's goddamn depressing is what it is. He shakes his head and folds his napkin next to his plate, precise lines in the linen, before he looks up to meet Matt's eyes. "You wanna bail right now, I'm not stoppin' ya."

"You're not _listening_ , McClane!" Matt flops back in his chair, all loose gangly limbs. John's thought a lot about those limbs in the past month – about the arms that flail about when Matt's excited, and the way that he talks with his hands, and about those long legs tangled with his. He blinks to get that image out of his head, focuses on Matt's face instead. His… very frustrated face. 

"You… don't date?" John asks.

Matt throws those expressive hands up in the air. "What I've been saying."

Not _I don't want to date_. Certainly not _I don't want to date you_. John squints across the table, 'cause if Matt's saying what he thinks he's saying that means that two and two seems to be adding up to five. Because Matt and not-dating makes no sense. But then neither does Matt sitting quietly in a crowded restaurant and _not_ lecturing him about how much sodium is in the pizza crust or the hazards of the LED lighting in the Coors sign above the bar. 

John leans back in his own chair, matches Matt's posture and tries for a little truth. "Thought you'd be beating the men off with a stick."

"Hah. Yeah. You're a funny guy, McClane," Matt says. He drags his plate back in front of him and picks at his crust fitfully – there are already half a dozen little piles of dough lined up at the edge of the white china – but John is a patient man. And when John doesn't speak he finally looks up. And his eyes widen. Kid really has no idea how goddamn tempting he is, all big brown eyes and long lashes and innocent expression. "Wait," Matt says finally. "You're serious?"

John lifts a shoulder. The wrong one – fuckin' Gabriel – but he does his best to hide the wince. "Just sayin'," he says. "Young, cute. Nice ass."

This time Matt's laugh is genuine. "Well. Thanks? But no, I don't… date. I mean, unless you count that time I spent two hours dancing with this dude at a rave to this shitty fucking electronic noise and then we went out to his car and the second I got him off with my hand he kicks me out into the rain and peels out of the parking lot like the Krell Lord was on his ass. Or that time I met someone at Best Buy and it turned out he only wanted to check out my download of _Chromehounds_."

"What the fuck were you doing getting in a stranger's car?"

"Wow," Matt says. "You can take the man on a date, but I guess you can't take the cop out of the man, huh?"

"Been a cop for thirty years, Matt. Kinda hard to turn it off."

If the kid thinks it's unnerving that he's been on the force longer than Matt himself has _been alive_ , he doesn't show it. And though he hasn't known the kid long, he'd bet dollars to donuts that Matt Farrell's not exactly known for his poker face.

"All right," he continues. Honesty's gotten him this far, he may as well throw out all possibility of pulling the rip cord and free fall the rest of the way. "Got something to tell you, too. You have any idea how many times I got up and wandered around that hospital room tryin' to get up the nerve to approach you?"

He watches Matt blink once, slowly. "You're kidding."

"How interesting did you think the view outta that window was, kid? We looked out onto a parking lot."

"I thought you were bored!" Matt blurts out. "Or restless. Or taking a perverse pleasure in defying in defying the doctors and nurses orders!"

"Last one ain't untrue," John mutters. His eyes have drifted unknowingly down to his half-eaten slice, and he forces his head up. John McClane faces shit head on. Even if his palms are damp and there's a thin line of sweat making its way down his spine. "I also might have just been nervous."

"But…you… and the elevator shaft… and the _helicopter_!" Matt splutters. "After all that, _I_ scare you?"

"Terrify," John admits. "Amuse. Annoy. Arouse," he adds ruefully. "Never met anybody like you, kid."

"Wow. That's—" Matt shakes his head. Probably the first time the kid has ever been at a loss for words. When he looks across the table, his smile is still incredulous… but soft, too. "I'm glad you got up your nerve. This is the best first date I've ever been on. Of course as mentioned it's also the first date I've ever been on, but that still means you're batting a thousand anyway you look at it."

"A sports reference," John says. "Impressive. And hey, at least I don't just want you for your download of _Chromedogs_."

"I'm gonna pretend that was intentional, McClane."

"John."

"Right." 

Matt's smile gets bigger, and John's pretty damn sure his own is matching it. It would be sickening – maybe even like something out of those romcoms that Matt professes to hate – if it weren't for the fact that he feels about a hundred pounds lighter than when he walked in the door. He pushes at the basket in the middle of the table and tries to force his face into normal, non-gleeful lines. "Try some of the garlic bread."

"I'm actually allergic to garlic," Matt says. "Well, maybe not allergic, since I've never been tested, you know, but it tastes like I've got paste in my mouth… you know that white paste that you use in school for craft projects and shit? And then I get this burning sensation in my throat and I start to gag and my stomach starts to churn, and I usually have to run to the bathroom and upchuck everything I've eaten in the last twenty four hours except instead of food it usually looks like this disgusting grey green stuff, it's awful. God, the smell!"

John had started back into his pizza with enthusiasm, but now he sets his half-eaten slice aside for the second time in ten minutes. "Okay," he says. "Think I'm done."

"Yeah, right," Matt snorts. "I saw you down a 7-Eleven hotdog covered with something that _may_ have been sauerkraut sometime before 2004 about ten minutes after being responsible for exploding a ninja chick into about ten thousand bite size pieces."

The kid's right. And that dog had been fucking amazing. He shrugs and picks up his slice.

"Anyway, that's not even my worst vomiting experience. _That_ would be in junior high, when the powers that be had the _brilliant_ idea to hold a wrestling contest immediately after our Spring Into Summer bake sale. Picture this—"

John takes a bite of his slice and lets Matt's voice wash over him. Who needs a 'chute? Seems like he's gonna land safe and sound.


End file.
